


Ki** Me Quickly

by Shachaai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, snark and lipstick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 14:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19770328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: France has an experiment with make-up - or, as England puts it, another experiment in raiding England's dressing table and doing her level best to piss England off.





	Ki** Me Quickly

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from tumblr.
> 
> This was born of me flipping through a fashion magazine whilst bored (in October 2017) and snorting at the latest trends in British make-up styles.

With the yellow, the blue eye-cream is too bright, France decides, tilting her head just _so_ to regard her face in the dressing table’s mirror. Not too _bold -_ she has boldness in armfuls -, but not suited for her complexion at this time of year; the lighting, it washes strange over the warm cream of her skin. Her people are still into blending out their eyeshadow, and the smoky effect on her lids always makes her blue eyes beneath all the more arresting. The blue eye-cream with its yellow contrast is for _affront,_ for _alarming,_ for the pale waifish or dark buxom beauties of the world who want the pop-out scream of pop art.

“Darling,” France says, and tips her head back at one of those pale waifs of contemplation, the woman whose dressing table France is currently raiding out of boredom, “you’re going very _seventies_ again lately, aren’t you? I feel terribly glam rock.”

“You don’t have the haircut,” England informs her blandly, not even bothering to look up at France from where she is sitting cross-legged on her bed and mending a pair of trousers. On a pretty floral duvet without even a hint of sharp glitter in the air. Who is _she_ right now to criticise any French glam rock tendencies? “Try the hippie look instead; if you’re off your face I can dump you at your embassy and get some peace and quiet.”

 _“Salope,_ ” says France cheerfully, and throws the closed tube of yellow eye-cream at her. If England will insist on following France around the house because she refuses to leave France unsupervised - especially in her bedroom. England is _still_ terribly hung-up about that one time (or ten) that France had managed to dispose of almost the entirety of England’s wardrobe when she had gotten into it alone -, France is going to use her as occasional target practice.

“ _Pétasse,_ ” England retorts in precisely the same tone, and bats the eye-cream off her lap where it has landed on the trousers. “If you make a mess, _you_ get to do the cleaning.”

“You are a _terrible_ hostess,” France huffs, and reaches for England’s face-wipes. They’re not even _nice_ face-wipes; what has the great Nation of France been reduced to? If she has a break-out because of England’s awful choices in facial cleansers she’ll strike. In the kitchen. “I am already cooking for you, and now you’d have me clean for you too?”

“Did I invite you?” England grumbles back at her, head bowed over her sewing again in the way France knows will make England complain about the crick in her neck later. (A shame, it does lovely things for her aesthetically.) “I didn’t invite you. Not to cook, and not _here_ in general.”

France sniffs, concentrating on wiping off the eye-cream on her face. “ _Your_ cooking would poison us both, and I am far too beautiful to starve.”

“If you wish to be murdered in another fashion, I’d be happy to oblige.”

“As ever, your charitable spirit is shining.” France turns at the dressing table so she can dramatically point her finger at her English hostess. “If any of my deaths suffer from indignity because of _you,_ I will haunt your tea cupboard, ma lapine, you see if I don’t.”

England just smirks at her, slow and wicked. “Shouldn’t that be, if any _more_ of your deaths suffer indignity because of me?”

France throws the tube of blue eye-cream at her as well, if only because the balled-up used face-wipe she’d thrown before it flutters rather pathetically to the floor three inches away from her own seat. She turns her back on England when England’s smirk turns unsufferable, sniffing some more and, eye-cream now removed, going back to raiding England’s other make-up with abandon.

More specifically, England’s lipstick, which currently appears to range from the cute rosebud colour England only ever wears when she’s being _delicate_ and trying to make people forget she has a viper’s tongue, through deep wine burgundy and a strange and almost untouched side-foray into robin’s egg blue, all the way up to an unashamed _crimson_ that’s just a shade off the lipstick France herself prefers when she’s supposed to be _sparkling_ at another politician’s tedious dinner. The last time France can recall England wearing the crimson, America had tripped over his own feet and taken out a buffet table on the way down.

France goes for the buffet table-killer.

The look this season is less painting between defined lines and more sexily smudged, so France parts her lips to paint millimetres inside the natural line with the very point of the lipstick. England can line her eyes with a pencil, mirror-less and on a moving bus, but France has always preferred those options that are least likely to end with her maiming herself with make-up. (Do not ask her _how_ she can maim herself with lipstick: it is _England’s_ lipstick, and if anyone’s lipstick could manage such a feat, it is definitely England’s.)

Past here, France should smudge the lipstick outwards with her fingertip - but she hardly wants to be wiping crimson lipstick off of her hands. The darker shades always _stick_ rather stubbornly.

“Angleterre,” France slides around in her seat, smiling bright and shamelessly dazzling as she extends a palm to England, “do come here?”

In the way of all her people in the face of a superior culture, England stubbornly refuses to be dazzled, looking up from her sewing to squint rather suspiciously instead. “Why?”

“Because you should take a break before your spine protests, and your assistance right now would be invaluable. Come, come.” France makes grabby hands, determined to have her way despite England’s innate intractability. Wild things once tamed are easiest to tame again - with patience. “ _À moi._ ”

Perhaps bored of sewing, perhaps seeing the logic of France’s argument, perhaps allowing her streak of sentimentalism to surface long enough to make her biddable, England actually puts aside the trousers she is working on and unfolds herself from the bed. She enters France’s orbit with the same light dangerous tread as a cat, and France reels her in with a hand on her wrist to bring England between her thighs.

England regards her warily from above, and France sighs at her. “You are a _terribly_ distrustful creature, ma belle. I could be hurt.”

“Experience gives me good cause.” England takes her hand back from France’s grip, ignoring the artful _moue_ of French discontent - and places both her hands either side of France’s jaw, her fingertips pressing lightly into the delicate skin to tilt France’s head better in the light. “You’re trying a new look?”

Pleased by the attention and happily preening, France flutters her eyelashes. “Fashion is the art of reinvention.”

England snorts at her. “Snakes regularly shed their skins.”

Outraged at the comparison, France pointedly jabs England in the sides for that - if England were anyone else, France would have pinched her hips for that, but England has so little flesh _spare_ on all her pointiest edges; it is so unfair -, taking advantage of the half-jump- _squeak_ that gets her and pulling England down onto a seat on one of her thighs.

Perched like a grumpy cat, England frowns. “Frog, I don’t see how this lends you any assistance -”

France kisses her. It is a deliberately hard and messy thing, unbalancing England enough that her hand flies up to grab France’s shoulder to steady herself before she topples to the floor and takes the dressing table beside them with her, her nails digging in through France’s shirt. The other hand pulls harsh at France’s hair, a claw that will drag France down if England goes down first, but England’s chin is tipped _up_ into the kiss, rough and hungry, and her chapped lips move over France’s smoother ones _eagerly,_ not just willing.

“You will give me friction burns,” France murmurs, hot and close between their mouths, her head alight with England’s sharp hold on her, the sharper look levelled on her face from underneath England’s dark golden lashes. Ivy in green and yellow: autumn and England, moving through its shades.

“You would _deserve_ them,” England murmurs back to her, pressing her lips carelessly to the corner of France’s mouth to give them an inch to breath. “I have a perfectly serviceable bed, right over there, that you could have come across and joined me on.”

France tuts. “Before my make-up was done? I had to finish applying it first.”

“Oh?” England pulls back a little further to regard her face curiously, and France steadies her again so England does not topple down on top of the scattered paraphernalia on the dressing table. England’s hand leaves France’s hair, curves around her jaw enough so that her thumb can gently swipe across the swell of France’s lower lip. The lipstick must be smudged now, because there is certainly a pretty enough crimson stain on _England’s_ mouth. “Oh. You’ll have to begin again.”

“Not at all,” France demurs, and looks over England’s shoulder at her own reflection in the mirror. Yes, the lipstick _has_ smudged rather beautifully, and France looks half-ravished and kiss-swollen even without a pout. Ardour has always suited her: France preens, and England’s expression rapidly morphs from humouring commiseration to realisation to exasperated self-disgust. (It’s a good as look as the make-up.) “Apparently the lipstick look this season is _just-been-kissed._ ”


End file.
